


Acceptable Male Behavior (and Other Things Long Since Irrelevant)

by lighthouse111



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (I promise), (Only if you want it to be), BAMF John, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, In which the Transport takes a beating, It's all just Transport, Language, Nightmares, Possibly spooning, Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sharing a Bed, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lighthouse111/pseuds/lighthouse111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violent encounter leaves John and Sherlock struggling to re-gain a sense of normalcy.  Or at least, their own version of normalcy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pay at least a small amount of attention to the time-stamps: days are measured relative to the kidnapping. 
> 
> "Homes and Watson are two men who happen to be room-mates, wrestle a lot and share a bed. It's bad-ass." ~R. Downey Jr.  
> (Somewhat inspired by this quote.)
> 
> Enjoy.

_  
_

_****  Day 4_

The flat was a proper mess.  John had made an attempt earlier to straighten, but it was no use with Sherlock around.  He moved from task to task at a rate that John found alarming.  John was beginning to worry about him, but Sherlock wouldn't hear a word of it - he absolutely refused to talk about himself.  John had forced him to concede that he had been cleared at the hospital, but beyond that Sherlock would change the subject or walk out if John showed signs of wanting to inquire about his well-being.

He was brittle and sharp, like flint.  Defensive, which John suspected betrayed fear.  Restless, which John translated loosely as confusion.  John wanted to allow him to vent, to take it out on him, to yell and thrash and cry if he wanted.  There was a storm bottled inside of Sherlock and it seemed to be tearing through even _his_ steely control.

 

_****  Day 4,  6:17pm_

Sherlock was at his desk, tapping away at his computer. 

"Is that blood?"  John leaned over Sherlock's back.  "Yes, it is - that's blood.  Sherlock -"

Sherlock was already out of his seat, looking down at where he had been sitting.  Blood had soaked through his shirt and splotched on the back of the chair.

"Let me look."  John stepped around behind him.

"Not necessary, John."  Sherlock jumped away from him, shuffled through the disheveled pile of books on the table.

"Have your stitches come loose?"  John was undeterred, though Sherlock appeared uninterested as he chose a tattered volume.  "I should have spoken with your doctor..."

"I didn't see a doctor."  Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively.  He walked into his bedroom and flopped smartly onto his bed.  John was on his heels, coming to stand indignantly in the doorway.

"You lied - you didn't see a doctor?  Dammit, Sherlock, why not?"

"You needed looking after."

"I did _not_ need looking after.  There was a hospital full of nurses and doctors looking after me."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said at deadpan, clearly finished with the topic.

John took a tight breath.  _Patience, John._   He exhaled and continued evenly.  "You're bleeding.  Through your clothes.  Onto the furniture.  You're _not_ fine - now let's see it."

Sherlock gave him an angry eye, then shoved the open book up between them.

_Fine.  Let him bleed._

John turned on his heel and marched out into the sitting room.  He looked around for something to do with himself.  He moved for his laptop before his eyes fell on the splotches of blood on Sherlock's chair.  He got a wet flannel from the kitchen and started scrubbing. 

John was tired.  Physically.  Mentally.  Tired.  He had been able to at least doze most of the night he spent in hospital, with Sherlock looking on from the chair beside the bed.  But the last two nights they'd been back in the flat he had spent alternately lying awake or pacing the floor in his room, incessantly having to stop himself from going downstairs to check on his flatmate.  Every time he started to drift off he would see Sherlock on that floor again.

Sherlock hadn't said a word about John's sleepless nights, but John wasn't fool enough to think he didn't know.

"You're only making that stain worse."  Sherlock's disembodied voice called from the bedroom.

John stopped, stared hard at the chair.  _Patience._   That was his mantra when it came to Sherlock Holmes.  _Patience, John._

"John, come here."

_Patience._

John draped the flannel over the chair, walked to the bedroom door and stopped short.

He found Sherlock standing shirtless, kicking off his trousers. After he had successfully rid himself of them, he stood there, defiant, chin up but not meeting John's eyes.

The bruising on his face was only the tip of the iceberg, it turned out.  Most of the damage was really just scrapes and bruises, the result of being mostly undressed and on the losing end of several scuffles on a concrete floor.  But what made John's stomach turn was the deep bruising just above Sherlock's hips and again over his shoulder just to the right of his neck.  John felt sick.

"Sherlock - "

John was well aware that he looked a hell of a lot worse, but he didn't care.  He didn't give a damn what he looked like.  But the way Sherlock looked… unceremoniously stripped to his shorts, lanky frame, slender musculature, pale skin that softened the angles of his figure enough to grace him with a boyish atmosphere - and all jarringly marred by rough hands, violent abuse.  John's chest was tight, his throat full.  The way Sherlock looked was enough to push John Watson to a blind, righteous anger. 

Sherlock saw it, narrowed his eyes, "You're angry."

"No, Sherlock.  I'm sorry.  I just…  I hate to see you like this is all."  He forced himself to breathe evenly.

Confusion flitted over Sherlock's features.

"I hate to see you hurt."  John clarified.

Sherlock looked over him sharply as way of pointing out the obvious.  In comparison to John, Sherlock was the image of health.

Sherlock huffed out a breath.  "I told you - your concern is undue.  You wanted to see where I was bleeding; here is where I'm bleeding.  My back, as you pointed out, and my knees keep bleeding as well.  Honestly, it'll all clot up eventually.  I just keep fidgeting with it.."

John sighed.  "It's been three days.  If it's still bleeding on and off now, then it probably needed stitches."  He bent down stiffly, favoring his bad leg, and looked at Sherlock's knees, which were mostly raw and had lost a considerable amount of skin.  "You should really have had antibiotics for this."

Sherlock was stiff, distinctly uncomfortable with John so close.  "I've been self-medicating.  It's quite effective."

"Sherlock!  You can't just do that."

"It's not infected, is it?"  He snapped with an air of settling the matter.

John glared up at him.

"Sit down.  I'll get gauze."

John was back in a moment with basic first aid.  He cleaned and bandaged both knees; Sherlock flinched each time John touched him and it made John's chest lurch.  John looked him over as quickly as he could for anything else major before asking him to stand up so he could get to his back.

Sherlock went rigid as John stepped behind him. 

John reversed, and stood again in front of Sherlock.  If he hadn't seen a doctor... then he hadn't gotten checked out as he promised John he had.  John was suddenly afraid.  Sherlock could have lied about that too.

"Sherlock.  That night...  What they did -  What they were trying to do -"  John found himself unable to say it.  "Did they - ?"

Sherlock let the unfinished inquiry hang in the room for a moment before answering.  "I imagine they would consider their attempt not fully successful, thanks to your interruptions and Lestrade's timely arrival."  His tone was even, but he seemed brittle, avoiding John's eyes.

"Mm." John nodded, brow furrowed.  He wanted badly to walk out of the room.  He forced himself to keep asking questions.  "Right.  So, ‘not fully successful'…?"

John suddenly realized he was a coward.  Here he was, scared even to give voice to the words, forcing Sherlock to explain himself.  He gathered courage and interrupted before Sherlock could answer.  "I'm sorry - do you mind if I am frank?"

Sherlock looked nearly relieved.  "I would prefer it."

"Right.  Right.  What I need to know is - was there.. was there, ah, penetration?"

He thought he saw Sherlock flinch before he answered, still avoiding John's eyes, "Yes."  John's heart was lead in his chest.  "Though only briefly.  As I said, you and Lestrade were both very timely.”  His tone grew sharp.  “I have experienced only very manageable pain and almost no bleeding.  There was hardly time for a transmission, but even so, I did the bloodwork myself.  _Honestly_ , John, I'm not a _fool_.  I would have consulted a doctor if it had been necessary."  Sherlock was angry.  John hated this moment.

John let out the breath he'd been holding.  "Right.  I'm sorry."  He couldn't get gut-wrenching images out of his mind.  

"I'm _fine_ , John.  Just my back if you don't mind."  His face was hard, flinty, as if daring John to comment further.

"Yes, of course."  John was struggling to get a handle on himself.  He knew there was no hiding it from Sherlock.

John worked in silence until he was satisfied that Sherlock was taken care of.  When he was done, Sherlock reached for where his clothes had landed on the floor and John gathered this things.

John hesitated before leaving the room, but Sherlock didn't look at him again and he uncomfortably dismissed himself.  He sat down on the couch and opened his laptop.  He went through the usual motions, checking his e-mail, his blog.  But he didn't see any of it.  His mind was running over the things that had led up to that night - the thousand things he wished he'd done differently.

 

_****     Day 0,  10:28 pm_

John's lungs were burning, his feet pounding on the concrete.  London was made of cold mist and shadows and adrenaline in his veins. 

"Shit, Sherlock, can't you _wait_?  I'm almost there!"  He struggled to keep his mobile against his ear while running at a near-sprint. 

" _No_ , John, he's getting away!"

" _Sherlock_ -"

The call was disconnected.  John swore loudly and ran faster.

Five minutes later he rounded a corner and found Sherlock slumped against an alley wall, not moving. 

" _Fuck._   Sherlock."

John closed the distance between them and crouched down, checking vitals.  Sherlock's head lolled limply against his hands.  John's heart was in his throat. 

Something struck the back of John's head and he knew no more.

 

_****  Day 4,  10:47pm_

John lay in bed, staring at the wall.  If he kept still, most of the pain faded.  Unfortunately he still needed to breathe, so his ribs only got a partial respite. 

The flat was quiet.  Before, John would have loved this - Sherlock was respecting the fact that John was trying to sleep.  But now… now he wished he could hear his flatmate downstairs, shuffling around, talking to himself, working on his ridiculous experiments.  He'd even welcome the violin tonight.

But these last couple nights, the flat had been completely silent.  He hadn't thought of it before, but now he lay wondering:  maybe that was part of the reason he'd been unable to sleep - maybe he'd actually gotten used to the noise. 

It was strange, Sherlock being so quiet.  He wondered what he was doing.  Was he actually sleeping?  It seemed unlikely.  John wanted to check.  But he shouldn't.  Sherlock was a grown man - he could take care of himself.  Mostly, anyway. 

And so John lay in bed, wondering and staring at the wall.

He tried to keep his mind occupied and keep his eyes open.  Each time that his thoughts ran out, his mind slipped its own way, his eyes fluttered closed, and he found himself back in that warehouse:  Sherlock, outnumbered, cowering on the dirty concrete floor and John couldn't make his legs take his weight. 

And John would wake, sweating and shaking.

 

_****  Day 5,  1:17am_

Around one in the morning John finally, frustrated and exhausted, plodded down the stairs, noting that the painkillers were definitely wearing off.  The flat was still and mostly dim, the drapes were drawn but light filtered in from the kitchen.  He knocked softly on Sherlock's partly-open bedroom door. 

Sherlock leaned out from the kitchen.  "Alright?"

John jumped.  "Yes.  Yes, fine."

Sherlock disappeared again.  "Tea?"

"No, thanks.  Not now."  John came in and stood against the counter, squinting against the kitchen light.   "Listen, Sherlock.  I have a favor."  The kitchen was a wreck.  Something seemed to have gone rather messily wrong - there was a pool of greyish liquid over the table, dripping lazily to the floor.

"Fire away."  Sherlock was fiddling with something under his microscope.  The generous bruising high on his cheeks was fading to yellow, making him look sickly in the harsh light.  He seemed edgy.

"I can't sleep."

"Obviously." 

John's patience was thinned by exhaustion.  "Right."

Sherlock seemed not to hear him.  "You worry about me."  Sherlock didn't bother to look up, spoke instead to the slide he was examining.

John stared.  "Well..."

"And you don't want to sleep alone."

John stared.  And was vaguely aware that he should close his mouth.

Sherlock glanced up, registered John's expression.  "And by that I mean that you'd rather know that you had the company of another person in the room in order to help you avoid frightening disorientation just before sleep and just after waking."

"Well...”  John clenched and unclenched his jaw.  “Yes."

"I'm not tired, John.  Would rather keep myself busy at the moment."  Sherlock went back to his work.

John paused, frustration rising.  Sherlock didn't look up.  "Right."  He pushed off the counter, headed toward the door.

John was already out of the room when Sherlock spoke.  "Do you mind if I read?"

John stilled, looked back.  "What?"

"If I read.  Will the light bother you?"

John, startled, shook his head.

Sherlock stood and snapped his laptop shut and swept out into the sitting room, dressing gown billowing.  John followed mutely behind.

While Sherlock picked out a book, John began to make himself comfortable on the couch. 

Sherlock made a noise of impatience without turning round.  "You know that couch is rubbish.  You can't sleep decently there even on a good night."

"Well...?" John narrowed his eyes in confusion, watching Sherlock's hands flit over the volumes on the bookshelves.

"Go on and sleep in your own bed.  I can read up there too, you know." 

John nodded and dragged his exhausted body back up the stairs.

In his room he sat down on the bed and was stripping off his socks when he felt the bed sink under Sherlock's weight.  He turned to find his flatmate lying on top of the bedclothes, head neatly on the pillow, book already open and being read.

"So... when you said that you could read here, you actually meant _here._ Like: _Here in my bed_ , here."

Sherlock lowered the book and glanced toward the chair at John's desk.  "You expected me to sleep in a straight-backed chair?"

"You said you weren't tired."

"I'm not tired _now_ , John.  But hopefully I will be at some point.  You're not the only one who hasn't slept in three days."

Sherlock put the book back up.  John stared at its cover.  _Patience, John._  

"Right."  And then to himself, "I should have known."  He pressed his eyes closed, raised one hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

"Problem?"  Sherlock's face was still hidden behind the book.

"No, no.  Nothing."  Sherlock seemed to miss the sarcasm.  John sat there another moment, weighing out the pros and cons of continuing to bicker.  He rubbed his tired eyes.  He was having a hard time thinking straight.

He glanced at the bed.  He had maybe three-quarters of a meter of mattress.  And he had company.  He decided it was enough.  He'd figure out the rest when he woke.

He managed to arrange himself relatively comfortably without so much as brushing Sherlock.  Mission accomplished. 

He was so tired that his mind was fuzzy.  The bed felt marvelous.  And he could hear Sherlock breathing, which was very, very real - it was much harder somehow to imagine him back in that warehouse when he was very clearly being his normal head-strong self just inches away.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock broke the silence.  "Have you changed your mind?  About wanting company?"

John risked a glance across the bed.  Sherlock wasn't reading - he was staring out over the top of the page.

John paused to consider.  Actually, it wasn't bad.  Weird.  Definitely weird.  But not bad.

"No, I haven't."

Sherlock went back to reading.  John went back to sleeping.


	2. Part 2

_**** Day 0, 11:07pm_

John woke up gasping. _Shit_ , he was in pain. It was almost completely dark; he was in a cramped space, his face mashed against rough carpet. He tried to sit up but couldn't - his hands were bound tightly behind his back. His good shoulder was on fire - it seemed dislocated. He spat, clearing what tasted distinctly of blood from his mouth, breathing hard. He was in a vehicle. In the boot of a car. He wasn't alone. He shifted to get a better look at his company - his shoulders screamed protest. He couldn't see enough in the dark, but he realized the smell - too distinctive to mistake. It was Sherlock.

He was lying next to John, seemingly also bound, facing away. The pale skin of his wrists and hands seemed to glow in the darkness. John called his name in a harsh whisper but Sherlock didn't respond. John attempted to nudge him with his knee but got a little carried away and hit him rather hard. Still no reaction.

He felt the beginnings of panic. He wriggled painfully closer as best he could and felt momentarily at a loss, what with his hands bound behind his back. Twisting forward, he laid the side of his face against Sherlock's back, and after a desperate moment finally felt Sherlock's body rise and fall, breathing. John let his head drop to the floor, momentarily relieved, thinking as quickly as he could.

He didn't know how long they'd been driving. He didn't even have a guess as to where they were going. Hell, he wasn't sure where they were coming _from_. As far as John could feel, he didn't think his mobile was in his pocket any longer. He was definitely no longer armed.

He was having a hard time remembering how he'd gotten into this state. He couldn't remember how his right shoulder could have gotten dislocated. Considering the blood in his mouth and the way his face felt, he must have put up a fight. Damn, he wished he could remember.

He wished Sherlock would wake up.

The vehicle took some turns and John tried to remember, _right, right, five minutes and then a left,_ but he soon realized he was losing track. The pavement turned to crunching gravel and a moment later they came to a lurching stop.

This was really, really not good.

The boot opened to darkness and two men tugged Sherlock's lanky dead weight out, none too gently. A third and fourth reached in for John; he kicked at them and received a swift punch to the gut for his efforts. A black cloth bag was tugged roughly down over his head and he was hauled out, set on his feet, and shoved off. Someone took hold of his bound arms and directed his blind stumbling. He could hear the sound of Sherlock being half-dragged along the gravel behind.

This needed to turn around. And fast.

He heard a heavy door open, and then clang shut behind them. The murmurs of the mens' voices and the scuffing of feet on concrete echoed as though the room was very large and empty.

After a moment, they came to a stop. The cloth was jerked roughly off his head, but he was still held firmly by the arms. He blinked in the yellow light from a single naked bulb, hanging low over six men, not counting himself, standing roughly in a circle. Sherlock, still unconscious, had been deposited on the dirty floor, splayed out on his side. John couldn't see much else - the rest of the space was very dark.

The tallest man stepped up to nudge Sherlock with a heavy boot and the other men moved, unquestioning, out of his way. He squatted down next to Sherlock's crumpled form, pushed his shoulder over and watched with an intense expression as Sherlock's head rolled limply. Grasping Sherlock's collar, he tugged sharply down, tearing the first couple buttons. John heard them skitter across the concrete. The man looked Sherlock over intently, then almost lazily let his hand fall between his own thighs to touch himself through his trousers.

John's stomach lurched. He started forward but was immediately jerked back, sending searing pain through his shoulders. Tight disbelief froze in his lungs. He couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock.

The tall man laughed coldly, regarding John with the ghost of a smile. "Ah. Jealous…"

John struggled uselessly. He was livid, and afraid.

"Don't worry, John. I'll let you watch." His voice was slick, drawling. The men standing by laughed.

John felt he could be sick. His mouth tasted like metal, his heart pounded in his head.

The man turned back to Sherlock and slapped him hard across the face. Sherlock stirred and the man slapped again. Sherlock jerked awake, and as he was lifted roughly to his feet, John watched his eyes as they took stock of everything - the room, the men, their weapons, their clothes. Everything. Finally his eyes caught John's. He was startled, calculating hard, but here was only a touch of fear apparent in his bruising face.

"Now..." The drawling man looked between the two of them. "What do you think, lads? Which first?"

"Me." John said, far too quickly. In his peripheral, Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's face.

More laughter. The man holding John's arms drove his boot hard into the back of John's knee and shoved him down to kneel on the concrete. "Shut up." John's arms were pulled up behind him, forcing his face down; he ground his teeth against the white-hot pain in his dislocated shoulder, willing himself quiet.

Polished shoes came to stand in John's short line of sight. "Eager, are we?" The tone was light, amused.

"Go to hell."

He laughed. "I'm sure I will. Think I'll send the two of you on ahead of me."

John's head was pulled back roughly by his hair. He looked up into the sneering face.

He seemed to consider John for a moment, then checked his own watch. "Well, shit. Why not? Cut him loose. First man to knock the doctor down gets a round with the detective here." There was a murmur of laughter among the group.

John glanced over at Sherlock: his face was still hard, but his eyes betrayed his anger. John could see his mind working, searching for a way to turn the tide.

John felt the material around his wrists being cut away and suddenly his arms were dropped. He could not stay silent as his right shoulder fell finally forward; as it struck the ground, the joint found its way home. He rocked forward, clutching at his arm, forehead on the rough floor, chest heaving as waves of pain blinded him.

"Oh, quit your sniveling."

Sherlock's voice cut in then, sounding relatively collected. "I assume there's a reason you've brought us? What is it that you want?"

John was thankful for the distraction as he caught his breath.

"Don't play stupid with me."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "That's not something I do. Are you hired? - Of course you're hired. Judging by eye contact and body language, only two of these men know each other - only one has ever seen _you_ before tonight. Besides, your methods have been well-practiced - flawless thus far despite the obvious fact that you are of barely average intelligence. So: hired professional. Not difficult to guess by who. The choice of location suggests -"

John heard Sherlock take a sharp blow to the gut, knocking the air out of his words. John looked up from his hands and knees and watched the tallest man glare down at Sherlock, who was doubled over at the waist. The man's expression was mostly anger, with a shadow of uneasy surprise.

John took advantage of the moment to find his own feet, spurred by fear and a surprisingly strong well of anger.

Sherlock controlled his wheezing breath and slowly straightened, his face hard, disgusted, unafraid.

“Had best hold your _tongue_ , Holmes,” the man spat out. Stepping around behind Sherlock, he looked the detective up and down in a way that sent a fissure of panic up John’s back. He jerked his chin up towards John, “On with it, then, patience isn’t one of my strengths.”

John cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, attempted to appear as cocky as was possible when outnumbered five to one. A short tussle erupted between the men as several stepped forward. One of the largest men in the group won out ( _Brilliant,_ John thought), squared up with John and started swinging before John was ready.

John stumbled clumsily, not fully managing to dodge a blow to the jaw, before he found his footing and fell back on his training. (In boot camp during hand-to-hand, his sergeant had said “Watson, your form looks like _hell_ , but it’s damned effective.” That was a previous life, but the instincts remained.)

The world narrowed dramatically and he was reacting. Not thinking, just reacting.

_Jab. Sidestep. Fake right. Shift left. Swing right -_

His right fist connected with his opponent's sneering face and John followed mercilessly with a left hook, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. His blows were weak, but he had the man off-balance, stumbling backwards - John stepped forward after him, ready to take whatever shot presented itself -

John was struck suddenly by a hard blow to the side of his face. He was completely unprepared and reeled with it. One of the on-looking men must have taken a sucker punch.

John shook his ringing head to clear his vision but before he could fully recover, the man he'd been fighting squared off and struck him full-force in his left shoulder. John fought to restrain the scream in his throat but it half-escaped, strangled and pinched. His eyes streamed - it felt like he'd torn the old wound open again.

He heard Sherlock's curse immediately, voice sharp with disgust, " _Pathetic._ He'd beat you if you fought like even _half_ a man."

In John's peripheral vision he saw one of the men step over and nail Sherlock in the jaw, sending him bending forward, spitting blood.

"Shut up, Sherlock." John said firmly, blinking furiously.

His wounded shoulder seemed now useless, leaving his left arm hanging at his side. The right was still burning and weak from the dislocation but he forced it to work for him.

It was no longer quiet. The men were laughing, taunting. Another man stepped in, squared up with John. He was shorter, John's height, but had John beat in weight.

John ducked under the first shot, tried to uppercut but his shoulder betrayed him. Dodged the next swing, backing up, took a glancing fist to the eye. He ran out of room and someone shoved him back toward his opponent, who took advantage and swung up into John's solar plexus, but John partially blocked with his working arm and on a whim, as the man's head turned, John head-butted him hard in his exposed temple.

The man crumpled, clutching at the side of his face. John looked up, readying himself for the next round. He caught Sherlock's face and wished he didn't look so damn satisfied. That kind of attitude was getting him into trouble.

" _Excellent_ , John." Sherlock breathed, sounding like a proud parent. John wanted to punch him.

The tallest man seemed to feel similarly. " _Shut up."_ He struck Sherlock in the face again. "Another word and we'll skip right ahead to you."

Sherlock straightened with a shake of his head and spat blood again, grimacing but replying smartly, "I wouldn't object."

John snarled, "Shut _up,_ Sherlock."

"Oh, don't be a _hero_ , John." Sherlock snapped, his expression pinched. "You're in no condition."

" _Fuck,_ I'm getting sick of your _mouth_ ,“ the tall man snapped, cuffing Sherlock in the back of the head as he stepped just outside the loose ring of observers and into relative darkness, his body language irritated. John heard metal rake across the concrete. The man returned, holding loosely at his side a scrap of rusted steel framing, just under a meter long.

A tight chill ran down John's spine. The man looked between John and Sherlock, stepped closer to Sherlock.

John panicked, said the first thing that came to mind. "Touch him and I will _kill_ you."

In his peripheral vision, John noted that Sherlock actually rolled his eyes.

The man snorted in disgust, but turned, as John had hoped. "You are _pathetic_. Lapdog of Sherlock Holmes. Does he pay you? Or just shag you occasionally? Or maybe you _like_ writing your school-girl adoration, making him out to be a hero." He adjusted his grip on the steel rod, gave an short experimental swing. "You're eager enough." He sneered at John, looking him hard in the eyes. "Hell, I might enjoy you as much as I'm gonna enjoy him."

As the man stepped forward, the onlookers tightened up the circle automatically.

John's chest was tight. This would not end well. With a jolt of clarity, he recognized in himself a sort of fear he hadn't experienced in a long time. Like an animal cornered, he waited.

His vision blurred a bit as the man raised his weapon. John's head was awash. He couldn't keep himself from blocking the first blow, though he knew it would likely break bone. Pain splintered up his arm and his voice broke behind grinding teeth. He had barely enough time to register the next swing before it caught him in the side and knocked the wind out of him, knocked him off his feet. He stumbled to his knees, bent forward and clutching his side, barely aware of the jeering of the men.

"Enough already, John?" John raised his eyes, his breath was haggard. The man seemed even taller than before, standing over him. "Disappointing."

He swung again and John had no strength left to resist. The steel came down across his back and he was forced to all fours, where he waited, gasping, but was left alone. Seconds passed in which he was aware of little more than pain and the ringing in his ears, before he could hear again the cruel amusement of the men.

John made his way slowly, shakily to his feet. Warm blood was spreading over his back. He glanced down at his side; his torn shirt was blotched with crimson. He hardly felt the pain. The beginnings of shock, he noted.

He glanced up from his own body, blood on his hands, and caught Sherlock's fierce burning gaze.

"Hold him."

John was grasped roughly from behind, with an iron grip around his neck. His hands came up to clutch at his captor's arms, trying to maintain an open airway. He was too weak to put up much struggle.

The tallest man came to stand in front of Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock's shirt at the shoulder and in a single vicious motion tore it down across his chest and Sherlock just stood there, eyes wild and livid, not backing down.

The man behind Sherlock, the heaviest of the group, stepped forward and reached around and took in one hand Sherlock's face, his nose and mouth, forcing his head far back, and with the other he took a handful at Sherlock's groin, smirking over his shoulder. Sherlock's reaction was muffled by the hand across his mouth, but it made John's stomach turn to see him writhe in protest and it struck John as so inexplicably, undeniably _wrong._ He wasn't sure, in everything he had seen, if anything had ever felt so wrong.

John struggled but his yell was cut short by the tightening of his own captor's grip and the resulting closing of his own windpipe. The man holding Sherlock shifted his lower arm to Sherlock's waist, holding him fast despite Sherlock's continued struggling, and the tall man stepped forward, dropped his hands to Sherlock's trousers and presently undid them, then roughly shoved both trousers and pants down, fighting against Sherlock's attempts to kick at him.

John let loose a string of half-muffled curse words and elbowed the man who held him just below the ribs, heard the air rush from his throat, kneed the next man to come at him in the groin with everything he had. As that man crumpled, the next assailant was right behind and struck John hard across the face but paid for it when John's elbow caught him square in the jaw. He stumbled out of the way and John made toward Sherlock, but the next blow caught him off-guard and sent John tumbling over one of the men on the ground. Disoriented and gasping for breath, he found his knees and tried to hold his ground but there were too many.

And this time they came hard. Really, angrily, hard and not one at a time like when they were sporting with him, but all five all at once to put him down and shut him up. And in seconds he was on his back, unable to defend himself from multiple blows, struggling to cover his face. He was getting hit from every angle and then all at once there came a blow to his groin that caused his vision to flicker and darken and he curled up and they seemed to leave him be.

He lay still that way for a moment, covered over in pain and struggling for breath. He opened his eyes. There was blood all over the concrete.

He rolled over. Looked back across the floor. Through the pairs of boots, he could see Sherlock, nearly naked now, on his back on the floor - his eyes were wide and he jerked away as hands reached down toward him but they only laughed coldly and kept coming and John tried desperately to get up but he couldn't. His body responded only sluggishly and his vision swirled and he fought to stay conscious and he _had_ to get up. He had to, but he physically couldn't. The blood was rushing in his ears as it hit him: _he wasn't going to be able to stop this thing_. He wasn't going to be able to. He was about to watch this impossible thing happen.

Sherlock was yelling but John couldn't understand. There were hands on Sherlock's body, his clothes hanging off him in pieces, too many hands and nothing and no one standing up for him and John must have made some amount of distraction because one of the men broke off and took a step toward him and swung his knee toward John's face and blacked it all out.

 

_**** Day 1, Noon_

John thought he must be drugged. A suffocating cloud was pressing against his face. He couldn't seem to open his eyes. He was anxious, frantic. Sherlock. Sherlock was alone. John would have to shake this off and help him.

"John."

It was Sherlock's voice, seemed muffled. John stilled, listening hard.

"John." A hand grasped his arm and he started, tried to pull away.

John tried to call out to Sherlock but it came out garbled.

"You're in hospital. Stop - don't attempt to get up. You're half-dead, honestly, what do you think you'll do? Be _still_ , John."

Someone had him tightly above each elbow. John slowed, taken aback. It was difficult to think clearly. Sherlock's complete lack of sensitivity set him at ease somewhat. John tried to think, to process. He had no idea which way was up, but Sherlock seemed okay. He didn't seem worried.

In hospital. That was… Wow, he must have been out a while. Last thing he remembered was… the warehouse. Sherlock. He felt a rise of panic - he remembered them looming over Sherlock and then… nothing after that.

He tried to open his eyes but everything was a blur. "Sher.. Sherl'k…" Why did he sound so drunk?

"John. Do shut up. You'd be much better served to rest now. I assure you everything is fine. Now, _rest_."

It sounded like a good idea. But he felt panicky as Sherlock's hands left his arms. He must have managed to communicate that somehow; Sherlock returned one long hand to circle around the inside of John's arm just above the elbow. John could feel Sherlock's forearm lay down against his own and John tried to clasp him back in the same way but couldn't be sure if he had succeeded or not. He fought the heavy drowsiness a little longer until Sherlock began talking, more gently now; John didn't register his words but his voice was familiar and steady, fearless. John gave in and sleep washed swiftly over him.

 

**** _Day 1, 5:20pm_

John opened his eyes. _Oh,_ he hurt. Everywhere.

He blinked to clear his vision. It was dim. He was definitely in hospital. The smell. The sound of the machines. The feel of the bedclothes.

He looked around without moving his head. Down by his waist, he could see the top of Sherlock's disheveled head where he was seated and slumped against the bed, apparently dozing, one arm still resting along the inside of John's.

John started to take stock. Things seemed under control. They were likely safe here. Sherlock must be mostly physically fine, as he didn't seem to have been admitted. John turned his attention to himself. Moved each foot. Still working. Each hand (careful not to wake Sherlock). Good - painful, but working. Nothing seemed seriously broken. Couple ribs, maybe - breathing was a bit painful. He shifted his neck, his jaw. Wow, must have taken a couple good ones to the mouth. Stroked his tongue tentatively over his teeth. All still there - that was good luck. He could tell without trying that both his shoulders were a wreck. Brilliant.

A faint rustle at the door drew John's eyes and he found Lestrade stepping into the room, looking as though he'd aged ten years. He let out a long low breath, looking at John, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He shook his head, "Damn good to see you awake."

John gave him what smile he could, what with his stiff jaw and split lip. It probably wasn't terribly reassuring.

Sherlock stirred at John's hand, raised his eyes immediately to John's face, his hand gripping reflexively at John's arm when he found his charge was awake.

John offered him the same damaged grin. "Hey."

Sherlock stared. His grip on John's arm became mildly painful.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

Sherlock straightened immediately; his head snapped to the door to level a scowl in Lestrade's direction. He removed his arm from John's and gripped the arm of his chair instead, but his eyes swept over John, lingering on his face intently.

"Just spoke with your doctor." Lestrade stepped further into the room. "Says you're through the worst of it. Nothing permanent, then." He fiddled with the files he was carrying, shuffled his feet.

“Good. Good. Thanks.” John looked between the two of them, head still a bit fuzzy. The room was quiet for a moment. “So, ah.. what happened, then?”

Lestrade’s brow furrowed in worry, “You don’t remember anything?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with his back to Lestrade, spoke instead toward John, “He remembers what happened while he was _conscious_. _Obviously_.” Lestrade frowned.

Sherlock continued, speaking to John more slowly than usual, for which John was grateful. “Lestrade’s team arrived outside and executed an extremely _poorly planned_ assault of the building,” here he glanced over his shoulder to glare at Lestrade, who pursed his lips and crossed his arms. Sherlock turned back and fixed John with a sharp look, speaking pointedly, “ _however_ , it did effectively distract everyone from the two of us nearly _immediately_ after you passed out.”

John was breathless, suddenly. He couldn’t quite look away. “Right…”

Several tight seconds passed before Lestrade interjected, sounding mildly indignant and drawing John’s eyes away from Sherlock’s. "Wasn’t _so_ poorly planned, I’d say. Only took us five minutes to find you two – you were in sorry shape, but stable. Honestly, how you always end up bloodied and Sherlock manages to slip through untouched, I’ll never know.”

John glanced back to Sherlock, questioning. Sherlock met his gaze evenly.

_Untouched._

Lestrade continued, unaware. “Suppose you’d like to know, we ah.. arrested them all. Found enough information for a warrant on the man who hired them as well. Been trying to catch him on something for _ages_. Managed to find him early this morning – he put up a nasty fight but we arrested him in the end."

John looked again down to Sherlock, who just looked steadily back.

"Oh, no help from _him,_ though." Lestrade was grinning wryly. "With the arrest, that is. The warrant was his doing… and he figured out where he’d be hiding, but ah… Couldn’t tear him away." He cleared his throat again.

Sherlock glanced back at the Inspector as though he was a particularly annoying buzzing insect.

Lestrade seemed unoffended, still grinning. " Right, well, I've got to be off, but I'll be back tomorrow, need to get started on your statements and all." He nodded to the two of them, began to retreat, “Really, damned good to see you with us, John.”

"Cheers, Greg."

Lestrade left them in their silence.

John sighed, gingerly on account of his sore chest. Sherlock was leaning forward, looking at him as if he might spontaneously combust. It was mildly unnerving. John had a million questions he was too tired to choose between.

John looked Sherlock over again. "Sure you’re alright?"

Sherlock nodded, impatient.

John narrowed his eyes. Tried to determine the extent to which Sherlock was lying.

Sherlock shook his head and said at a deadpan, “Don’t be _boring_ , John."

John huffed out a rather painful laugh (definitely broken ribs), then let his head fall back against the pillow.

Sherlock scooted his chair a few inches closer.

He turned his face against the pillow to face Sherlock. The detective settled back in the chair and steepled his fingers against his lips, regarding John calmly as though content to do so indefinitely.

John grinned weakly. He was exhausted, and comfortable under Sherlock’s vigilance. Perhaps his other questions could wait a little while. John let his eyes flutter closed.

 


	3. Part 3

_****  Day 5, 3:02am_

John woke with a start.

Sherlock was shaking beside him. 

"Sherlock.." his voice was rough with sleep.  The stabbing pain in his jaw immediately reminded him he had not yet healed.

There was no response, no change; just the continued shaking, breath hitching with each inhale. 

The bed was not roomy.  It was never intended to serve two grown men, neither of whom much preferred to snuggle.  There were only a few centimeters between them, and that was with both of them just upon the edge.  John reached across the gap and tapped Sherlock on the arm.  He hissed in a quiet breath as his bandages flexed over stitches and raw skin.

Sherlock made no notice of his touch.  It was clear to John that he was terrified.  John hated it.  Hated to see it, hated to hear it.  Terror didn't feel right on Sherlock.  Not at all.

"Sherlock."  More urgent this time.  Voice still rough.  Then another hiss of pain as he pushed himself up.  He reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's heaving chest.  " _Sherlock._ "  Firm, but not sharp, trying not to scare him.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his hands flying to shove John's hand off his chest.  He pivoted away, losing his balance off the edge of the bed and tumbling ungracefully to the floor.  He was on his feet in an instant, eyes wild, staring John down. 

He was still terrified.

"Sherlock."  John repeated again, gently.

A second in which John noticed that he, too, was breathing quite heavily.

"John?"  Sherlock's voice was a croak.

"Yes, it's me.  It's John…  You're alright.  You were dreaming."

Sherlock didn't move, eyes still locked with John's, mind racing to the surface.  "Dreaming."

"Yes.  It wasn't real."

Sherlock was quiet for a very long moment.  His eyes became less wild, his shoulders less rigid.  John waited. 

Quietly, his voice sleep-rough: "It _was_ real, John.  What they did to you."

John swallowed.  Sometimes (often) Sherlock amazed him.  "It's over now.  I'll be fine.  We'll both be fine."

Sherlock looked defeated.  And like terror, defeat didn't look right on him at all.

"I promise you, Sherlock.  We _will_ be fine."

John knew he had no evidence.  No evidence at all to satiate Sherlock's driving force - his wonderful, terrible intellect.

Sherlock pursed his lips.  "I'm making tea."

And he was gone.  John let his chin fall down to his chest.  He granted himself another moment of relative comfort before he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, biting back a curse as his battered body sharply protested movement.  John heard the water running downstairs, the kettle being put on.  He glanced at the clock: three in the morning.  He pushed stiffly to his feet.

Sherlock was at the door with a glass of water in one hand and long fingers closed around something small in his other fist.  When John obediently held out his own hands, Sherlock made the exchange silently and was gone again.  John looked down at the tablets in the palm of his hand.  A double dose of painkillers along with another dose of his antibiotics.  No chance of hiding anything from that man.

He washed down the medication, then limped down the stairs.

In the kitchen he found Sherlock standing at the stove, his hair disheveled, hands braced on the edge of the counter, staring with unfocused eyes down through the kettle. 

John loitered at the door, leaned against the jam.

"I meant what I said up there.  I'm not worried.  I'll be fine.  Honestly, I've…  I've been through worse."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock...  Things.. like this.  They do something to people.  They stick with you for a while.  But it passes.  I know it does because I've been here before and it passed.  Right now it seems like life will never be alright again - like you'll never get back to normal.  But you will.  We will."

Still, Sherlock didn't move.  John didn't know how to make Sherlock believe him.

"We're both alive.  I'm _grateful_ for how it turned out.  Honestly, I'm grateful."

Suddenly Sherlock was animate again.  "Grateful?"  He turned his head sharply to the side, eying John over his shoulder.  "You're brighter than _that_ , John.  You were beaten nearly to death.  Only a man sick in the mind would be grateful for that." 

He pushed off the counter and began pacing, gesticulating, talking angrily to himself.  "If I had seen his intention just an hour earlier, I could have played it differently – If I had  realized – the indicators were there, John, subtle, but they were _there_ – I should have _known_.  I shouldn't have texted you. Should have gone alone.  I should _never_ have included you – "

John raised his voice and rode over him, "They fully intended to _kill_ us, Sherlock - we only survived because we kept them distracted long enough.  If you had been alone that night you would be in much worse shape – probably _dead_ – and you _know_ it."  It came out sharper than John had intended.

Sherlock squared off and snapped back, voice rising, "I'm _well_ aware."

They stared hard at each other in a rather loud silence, standing in their cluttered kitchen under the harsh overhead light.

"Like I said," John tried to calm his voice, "I'm grateful."

Sherlock made no attempt to subdue his agitation.  "Then you're a _fool_ , John Watson."

John was breathing harder than he should have been.  This conversation was pissing him off.

“You’d rather that I – what, stay home and watch telly?  While you’re out jumping head-first without so much as _looking_?  You’ll get yourself killed.  And I _give a fuck_ , Sherlock.  That might seem like a novel concept to you: considering someone else other than yourself. But – “

“You shouldn’t have _been_ there, John.  I _don’t_ need your heroics or your mollycoddling –“

“ _What?_ " The word came out as a yelp.  "How in _hell_ can you call what I did that night ‘ _mollycoddling’_?”

“I was _fine_ , John.  _Fine_ before you were here.”  He spat the words at John and turned on his heel, sweeping into the darkened sitting room to stand stiffly at the window. 

John stared.  He was fuming.  He turned the kettle off with rather more force than was necessary and stomped his way up the stairs, ignoring his body’s protests.

By the time he reached his room and shut the door, his breathing was a bit out of hand, and his mind was churning.  What in _hell_ had that been all about?

His room was not large enough to afford very satisfying pacing, but he made do.

_I should never have included you._

_I don’t_ _need your heroics._

Damn, that stung.  How did they get here – outright fighting over John’s part in Sherlock’s work, in his life – all over a damned nightmare?

_..might seem like a novel concept:  considering someone other than yourself.._

He ran a hand through his hair, cursed quietly; it wasn’t often that he lost his temper enough to say something he would regret.

He sat on the bed and hung his head.  Sherlock was being an idiot - John wasn't about to back down on that.  But truthfully, sifting out the insults and the sarcasm, his logic was... downright selfless:  Sherlock seemed to value John's well-being over his own life.

He was still an idiot.

John let his face fall into his hands, rubbed his exhausted eyes.  _Patience, John.  Patience_. 

He collected himself and descended the stairs calmly, ready for anything Sherlock had to throw at him.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his chair, back curved, head bowed.  His elbows were on his knees and his hands were clenched tightly in his hair.  Something about his posture made John's chest clench, made him want to reach out.

He walked over, hesitated, then laid a hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock turned his head away, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

John was at a loss, breath tight.  He waited.

Sherlock raised his head but kept his face turned away from John. He spoke wetly, unsteadily.  "You shouldn't stay, John.  You shouldn't stay - with me."  He sucked in a breath.  "There's no reason for you to stay, and every reason for you to go."   

"Hush."  John was firm.  " _Hush_."  It was a shock to see Sherlock this way.  It hurt - in his chest, in his throat.  "I'm not leaving, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head.  He suddenly shrugged John's hand off, turning away more firmly and wiping impatiently at his face with his sleeve.  "You should go, John.  I want you to go."

John looked hard at the back of Sherlock's head, unwavering.  "I'm not leaving.  I don't want to hear any more of this."

"John -" Sherlock turned to face John, his back straightening and face hardening.

"No, Sherlock.  _No_."  John spoke right over him.  "Just because you suddenly realize you _care_ if I live or die - you can't just get rid of me.  I'm _not_ leaving."

Sherlock blinked.  Didn't reply.

They stayed that way, staring each other down, John favoring his bad leg, Sherlock perched on the edge of the chair and holding his chin up in fragile defiance. 

Sirens wailed in the distance. 

Finally Sherlock's gaze faltered.  He stared at the floor, blinking excessively. 

John sighed, stepped back, brought a hand up to knead at the back of his own neck. 

Sherlock looked like he was unsure what to do with himself.  John wondered how long it'd been since Sherlock had such an emotional confrontation.

John shifted on his feet, Sherlock avoided looking at him. 

John sighed and held out his hand.  "Come on."

Sherlock looked at his outstretched hand, then up to his face, at a complete loss.

"I'm exhausted.  I’m not going up there without you."

"I'm fine, John."  His words were clipped.

John let his hand drop.  "But I'm not."

Sherlock looked up at him, not buying it.

"Look, I'm tired.  Really exhausted.  But I'm not going to be able to sleep when you're down here building an undoubtedly flawless case against me, so that tomorrow morning you can kick me onto the street -"

Sherlock pursed his lips, spoke quietly without aggression, "I wouldn't kick you onto the street..."

John sighed.  "Please, Sherlock."  He held his hand out again.

Sherlock studied him, then at length reached up and allowed John to pull him to his feet.

"Alright, then."  John headed for the stairs, suddenly very aware of how much is body ached.

To John's relief, Sherlock followed him mutely all the way upstairs and into his mostly dark room, pausing at the opposite side of the bed, watching him.

John was done talking.  He wanted to sleep and he wished Sherlock wasn't looking so awake right now.  It didn't bode well.

John sat down heavily on the bed and spoke over his shoulder, "You're not tired, are you?" 

To his surprise Sherlock pulled back the bedclothes and folded his long frame down beneath them, careful to leave plenty of room on John's side.  He then resumed placidly watching John from his vantage point on the pillow.

And so John arranged himself in the bed as painlessly as possible.  He finally stilled, on his stomach to relieve the stitches on his back and side, his head turned toward Sherlock to protect the bruising around his left eye and jaw, eyes closed, finally - _finally_ \- resting.

He enjoyed the stillness for several minutes, allowing his mind to clear, his exhausted body to relax.  Sherlock was breathing evenly beside him.  Not likely falling asleep, but John was alright with that.  As long as he was there, John could rest in relative peace.

The silence was too good to last. 

"I'm… sorry, John."  The apology clearly tasted strange in his mouth.

John didn't bother to open his eyes.  "What for?"

Sherlock was silent. 

John decided he really didn’t need an answer.  "Don't apologize, Sherlock.  It's fine.  It's all fine.  Just – don't try to kick me out of the flat again."

After a few beats of silence, John cracked open one eye to steal a glance across the bed.  Sherlock's head was turned on the pillow to face him the half-light, both eyes open, looking at him hard and calculating.

They held the contact for a second and then Sherlock gave him a small but serious nod before turning his face up towards the ceiling.

John let out a breath as he closed his eyes.  Good.  They got something settled.


	4. Part 4

****

John could sleep anywhere. In the field you can't nitpick. You sleep whenever and wherever you get the chance. He'd slept in the dirt, through the sound of not-so-distant mortar-fire more times than he cared to remember.

But Sherlock _was_ picky. Very picky. His room downstairs had heavy drapes and the dim light from the naked window in John's room was "obnoxious and endlessly distracting". He tossed and sighed and humphed until John got up, clambered gingerly up onto his chair and then his desk (so as to not tax his healing shoulders by reaching up) and hung a quilt over the offending glass, making sure even all the cracks were closed.

He managed to reach the floor again without falling and stumbled back over to the bed in the pitch darkness. Sherlock was silent. But he lay still and let John sleep after that, which John supposed was thanks enough.

 ****

And John would wake up each morning in almost the exact same position he had fallen asleep in. It was a shock, the first time he realized he had done this. He had gotten used to waking up tangled in the blankets or else having kicked them all to the floor during the night. He always tossed and turned in his sleep.

But now each morning he woke up on his back, still tucked neatly beneath the blankets, in just the same place as he'd fallen asleep. And each morning he would look down to find that Sherlock _had_ moved during the night.

John had seen Sherlock sleep; rarely, but he had seen it happen on a number of occasions. And he was always deathly still. John could go out in the morning after finding Sherlock crashed on the couch, and come back late that evening to find that he hadn't moved, his arm still hanging off the edge, legs still flung out over the cushions, neck still at an uncomfortable-looking angle.

But each morning he woke up to find that Sherlock had turned sometime in the night over toward John. Never against him, but close. And always Sherlock's hand was extended, just the one hand, fingers curled lightly around John's arm.

 

_**** Day 6, 10:24pm_

John lay awake in bed, his half-awake mind skittering from thought to thought, image to image, when it dawned on him. He cleared his throat softly.

"You wait until I'm asleep, don't you?"

The room was silent.

He waited. No way Sherlock was asleep. "Don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, John." Just barely too stiff. John would bet he was lying.

"Right, well." John thought about it, now that his mind was mostly awake, rolled it over in his thoughts. "For the record, I don't mind in the slightest, I just - You don't have to. Wait, that is."

Sherlock didn't move or respond. John didn't push him, just let it fall.

 

_**** Day 5, 3:27pm_

John sat in the bath, knees bent up in front of him, head back against cool tiles, breathing hot steam, the tap dripping steadily and sending little rings out evenly across the water's surface. Everything was still. Life was calm and under control now.

It still felt a million miles from normal.

He could barely get through an hour without having to close his eyes and breathe - remember that he wasn't in any immediate danger, and neither was anyone he cared about.

This state, of near-constant anxiety, wasn't unfamiliar. He was strongly reminded of the first months he had spent in London after returning from service. The tightness in his chest was the same. The pain was nearly the same. The detachedness he felt from the people around him was the same.

Except for Sherlock. Sherlock had been there. Neither of them could touch the world still moving around them, but they were at least still grounded to each other. It was a welcome difference, to not be completely alone.

Over the four days since they'd been home, they'd spent most every waking hour together in some capacity. (And quite a few of their sleeping hours.) John would read or write or pace or stare into the fire and Sherlock would bustle around, experimenting, researching, whatever it was that he did. And John could look up and catch Sherlock's eye and know that Sherlock saw him. Really saw him where he was. He hoped that his own expression communicated something similar to Sherlock; John couldn't always tell what was going on in that incredible mind, but he knew better than most, at least.

He absentmindedly flexed his left hand under the water, remembering the tremors he had struggled in vain to control before he met Sherlock; the gripping terror and heavy depression with which he would wake each night. He breathed deeply and tugged his mind to the present. It made all the difference, to not be completely alone.

Physically, John seemed to be mending alright. His right shoulder still burned like hell when he tried to raise it, and the left was stiff and painful most all the time. Nothing new - it would all heal up eventually - but at times it was infuriatingly inconvenient.

He'd managed to shave without lifting his arms, mostly by bending his head forward and working by feel instead of being able to watch himself in the mirror. Sherlock hadn't mentioned the shoddy handiwork, for which John was grateful.

He stifled a yawn, laid his head back lazily on the tiled wall. He was going to have to get out of the flat soon. He didn't much fancy walking around London looking like he got hit by a lorry, but too many more days spent indoors was going to drive him mad.

The door clicked and John snapped his eyes open.

"John?" It opened a crack and Sherlock's long fingers slipped in around the edge as he gripped the door.

"What is it?"

"May I come in?"

"I'm having a bath."

Sherlock didn't respond. Didn't remove his hand.

John gave an exasperated sigh, checked quickly that he wasn't much exposed from the door's perspective. "Come on."

Sherlock pushed open the door and closed it neatly behind him. He stepped across the room, closed the lid of the toilet and sat down like it was as natural as sitting at the kitchen table. John quickly covered himself with his hands; Sherlock sitting on the toilet afforded him much less privacy than Sherlock standing at the door. He felt suddenly distinctly naked.

"Sherlock, what on earth - "

"Problem?" Sherlock looked annoyed.

"Yes - can this wait?" John _was_ annoyed.

"You haven't washed your hair."

"What?"

"In five days. You haven't washed your hair. It bothers you." It sounded like an accusation.

"Well. Right, but - why have you come to tell me this?"

"I can do it, if you like." Sherlock looked truly irritated.

" _What_? No." John pursed his lips, shook his head. "Really. No. Thanks, but. No."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

"How is that ridiculous? I'm not letting you - what? _Wash_ my _hair_?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You say it like - like I'm offering to help you use the toilet."

"Well - it's - not that far off, really," John sputtered.

Sherlock glared at him, spoke after a moment, his tone explanatory, tense, "Mrs. Hudson asked if we shouldn't have someone in to help you - during your recovery. I assured her you wouldn't stand for it, having a nurse in the flat. She accused me today of neglecting you - she was headed up to do this herself. I guessed you might prefer me." A pause in which John felt an unexpected rush of gratitude toward Mrs. Hudson for her concern, and an accompanying pang of annoyance that they were talking about him as though he couldn't find his way around the flat. Finally Sherlock prompted, "I was wrong?"

John stared at him, imagined momentarily Mrs. Hudson in his place. Damned if he didn't actually prefer Sherlock.

John shook his head to clear the image. "That's - not the point. My hair is fine."

Sherlock rattled off with an air of exasperation, "The first three nights out of hospital you tossed and turned and irritated your stitches. Your hair's matted where you've bled through. Besides, it sticks up in every direction and looks ridiculous. I'm washing your hair."

John stared hard at the opposite tiles, took a breath. "Right."

Sherlock didn't need more consent. He slipped off the toilet and knelt next to John.

John nervously glanced down, checked that his hands were arranged to properly cover him.

"That's not necessary, John."

John shot him a sidelong look and found Sherlock's eyes fixed obediently on his own. "Right."

Sherlock produced a drinking glass (had he been holding that the whole time?) and dipped it into the water between John's feet. John almost told Sherlock to clear off right then, but momentarily water was running down the back of his head and it stung enough over the broken skin of his neck and back to distract his thoughts and tighten his breath.

Sherlock didn't comment, dipped again. "Head down."

John slowly resigned himself and did as he was told, closing his eyes and turning his face down.

The water was piping hot and once the initial sting calmed, it was actually downright pleasant. Water ran over his head and fell off his face, dripping between glass-fulls off the end of his nose and chin. John relaxed a bit, wrapped one arm loosely around his leg (he didn't care _what_ Sherlock said, the other hand still over his privates _was_ necessary) and tried not to think too much.

Sherlock was quick, almost professional. He added shampoo and worked gently around the stitches at the back of John's head, fingertips massaging warm lather over his scalp. It was hard _not_ to enjoy. Even if it _was_ his flatmate.

More water over his head to rinse, Sherlock's free hand cupping the falling water against his hair; then John heard the glass set down on the edge of the bath, and Sherlock toweled his hair gently, still ever cautious of John’s stitches. The towel left his head and he heard the door click open. He blinked water from his eyes and looked up in time to catch Sherlock stepping out the door.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, glanced back.

John was momentarily unsure what he meant to say, but realized after a few seconds of silence: "Thanks."

Sherlock made no response, but subtly relaxed the angle of his shoulders before slipping out of sight. John grinned slightly after the closed door. His life really was ridiculous.

 

_**** Day 7, evening_

Sherlock was cranky tonight. Much more than usual. John new it was because he was tired. Not just haven't-slept-in-three-days tired; this was the kind of tired that came from spinning around in his own dark thoughts for far too long with no Work and precious few distractions. His eyes were sunken, dark; his face looked strained. John had been waiting for him to crash all afternoon, but it hadn't happened, and by evening he was in a right mood. John could have felt much more sorry for him, but judging by the way Sherlock had been speaking to him, he was either blaming John or just taking it out on him. John escaped the flat for a few minutes to pick up take-away, hoping to give Sherlock some space, but on his return it seemed to have only irritated the problem.

John just kept his mouth shut. After they finished eating (John ate properly, Sherlock mostly ignored the food John set in front of him) John had had about enough and announced that he was turning in early.

Sherlock put down the newspaper with a snap. " _Finally_." he said, not quite under his breath and with more unveiled irritation than John thought was necessary.

John glared at him, then let it go. He was more than glad to give Sherlock his space.

On the fourth step of the stair, he felt Sherlock behind him. He stopped and turned, grasping at the dregs of his patience.

Sherlock was standing on the first step, looking up at John, impatient and confused.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Exasperated.

"Nothing. Why are you stopping?" Clipped.

"Because I'm _going to_ _bed._ And you're _following_ me."

Something unexpected happened on Sherlock's face. He looked momentarily shocked - and if John could trust himself to judge Sherlock's emotions, he would have said he looked hurt. It was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I've - I've forgotten my book upstairs." Sherlock's voice suddenly lacked strength. "I won't stay."

John paused, furrowed his brow in confusion. "You couldn't wait to get rid of me."

Sherlock was looking pointedly at the railing, his irritation obviously swelling again.

He let out a short and humorless laugh. "It's not _me_ who wants rid of _you,_ clearly." His tone was crisp, only a shade self-pitying. "I'm fine without the book, John." He turned and swept into his own room.

John stood rooted. That man could be infuriating.

He took a deep breath. Several times.

He plodded down the four steps he'd climbed, stopped in the doorway to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was curled moodily on the bed, his back to the door.

Despite his efforts at patience, John's voice was quite stiff. "If you want to sleep, and you'd like company, you should _tell_ me."

Sherlock humphed.

 _He is 12 years old._ John ran a hand over his face, rubbed at his eyes. _Patience._

John wanted to rant. He wanted to let Sherlock have it: _What more do you want? I feed you, I put up with you, I let you invade my bed, I took a hell of a beating for you and I would do it all again, probably_ _ **will**_ _do it all again, and you're pouting because I don't read your mind._

But he knew that wasn't entirely fair. Sherlock could read _his_ mind. It might very well escape him to remember that John couldn't.

He controlled his voice. Still exasperated, but gentler now. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know."

Sherlock didn't move.

Firmly, yet as softly as John could, " _Come on. Enough. Get up_."

Sherlock flopped over onto his back dramatically, looked at John.

John just looked at him. He looked almost small. Vulnerable, if that was possible.

Pressing his lips together, John made a motion with is head to encourage Sherlock out the door.

Sherlock rolled off the bed and onto his feet.

On the way up the stairs, John stifled a grin at the realization he'd had an easier time getting some women into bed.

As he settled beneath the duvet, he looked over at Sherlock. "Seriously, Sherlock. You have to _know_ by now that I'd do most anything for you. There's no sense not asking, if there's something you need."

Sherlock blinked, wouldn't look at him, turned his back rather pointedly toward John. John felt like he was scolding a kid, so he just let it be.

He got comfortable, closed his eyes, waited for sleep.

Sherlock's presence was steely and stiff beside him, and for some reason it kept John edgy. He tried to ignore it, force himself to breathe slower and make sleep come, but still it eluded him. He really wasn't all that tired yet - he had used sleep mostly as an excuse to escape earlier.

Sherlock shifted impatiently, exhaled pointedly through his nose. John opened his eyes, observed Sherlock's dimly silhouetted form in the dark. He could read the curve of his back and shoulders: exhausted, frustrated.

John finally broke the silence. "You remember what I told you the other night? About waiting for me to fall asleep?"

A pause. "Mm." Stiff.

"Come on, this is ridiculous."

He waited. Nudged Sherlock’s back with his elbow.

"John." Sherlock's tone was scolding, almost warning.

"I'm serious. Turn over here. Just because I can't fall asleep doesn't mean you have to stay up waiting for me to."

Sherlock was perfectly still. Ten seconds passed. John sighed, disappointed, exasperated.

After several more long seconds, Sherlock rolled to his back. Then, slowly, to his side, facing John. John could feel him close beside him, though they weren't touching.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John's voice was gentler now.

John could almost feel Sherlock's scowl.

John reached over, across his own body, and found Sherlock's arm. Sherlock only flinched a small amount. John pulled the bony hand toward himself until it was sitting stiffly on top of his own arm. He gingerly returned his still-sore shoulder to rest.

"You think that something like this - something awkward or uncomfortable - matters to me. Like it might change something. If your doing something awkward, or hell - downright offensive - affected me… I definitely would not still be here."

John hoped his slight grin was apparent in his voice.

Sherlock said nothing.

John got comfortable, adjusted his head on the pillow. Sighed.

Long silent minutes later, Sherlock's hand twitched on John's forearm, then slowly curled around it, grip tentative. Against his shoulder, John felt Sherlock let out a long quiet breath.

Something inside John relaxed at last, and he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic. More to come. Feedback appreciated.


End file.
